


Of Dreams and Dragons

by Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams



Series: Improbable Dreams [original writings and unfinished stories] [2]
Category: (if only vaguely), Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Merlin freeform, Original work - Freeform, not exactly fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams/pseuds/Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to my Improbable Dreams, my collection of original writings and unfinished stories.</p>
<p>Not exactly from the Merlin fandom, simply inspired by the stories of Merlin.</p>
<p>Merlin dreams of fire and dragons.<br/>One day he will make a choice, and the wrong move will damn him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dreams and Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations if you found this, you must have been digging really deep.
> 
> Another one of my stories that started out with such promise, only to be left unfinished.  
> *heavy sigh*  
> This one might actually be worth it too.

FIRE! Fire! Fire!  
A crimson and gold dragon beats it's wings and around it thatch bursts into flames and stones split apart. The towers of the castle shudder and implode in billowing infernos. Screams echo, and the sound of metal on metal fills the air. Suddenly in the turmoil one of the towers topples and shatters around the dragon, pinning its wings and long neck to the blood soaked flagstones. He stands in front on the dragon staring into soft brown eyes, very human eyes. Anger and fear twist his stomach, this is the monster that has destroyed his home. He takes up a fallen sword, still locked with those wide brown eyes. In those eyes he can see something that sends chills of terror through his limbs. The point of the sword wavers over the dragon. If he kills the dragon his people will be saved, they can rebuild this small kingdom and bury those killed by this beast. But he can't bring himself to do it, he can't kill the dragon and so his people will be doomed to servitude to a master they never wanted. He has betrayed his people and made himself a slave in his own weakness.

With a start he jolts awake, cold with sweat and tangled in his blankets. Panting for breath he sighs with relief. It is simply the nightmare. A terror of the night that has held him since he was a small child. He falls back into bed, taking comfort in the silence of the night. Every time he wakes from this dream he fears the sound of clashing metal, the smell of fire and blood, will follow him into wakefulness and he will know that his freedom, as it is, has come at last to an end and he will betray his people. And every dark morning he is relieved that it has not come to pass this night. With another groan he wrests himself from the warmth of his blankets, he will sleep no more this night.

As he goes about his day he banishes the dream from his mind.  
He avoids the people of the castle who fear and distrust him and walks in the calming woods beyond the small thatched town around the fortress.  
By nightfall his bag is full of healing herbs and poison mushrooms. He slips through the kitchen doors unseen in the bustle. Lost in his own thoughts he misses the tang of fear on the air and the whispers that fill the halls.

He dreams the dream again, but this is wrong. He never dreams it twice in a row.  
He awakens feverish, the dream clings to him and he feels suffocated in the smell of smoke. Only when the coughing starts does he realize this is reality. The dream is dream no more. The smell of smoke and blood is choking, the ring of metal on metal and anguished cries, the crackle and thunder of fire, the screaming of women and children, and above it all the clarion cry of the dragon.   
His blood runs cold.  
The time is come.

He leapt from his pallet, snatching his cloak and knife. He would run, run from fate and dreams. He would remove himself from the equation, without him the future would be forced to change.  
The screaming was deafening, the hall filled with fleeing bodies and choking fear.  
Through the open door into the courtyard, making for the side gate. Running and dodging the silver clad warriors on the flagstones, the house carls fending them off as best they could. He can feel each and every death. The terror, the desperation in the instant before and the final flare of life leaving the aching emptiness all the darker because of it.  
The flags wet and slippery under his feet, the scarlet spread lit to a garish brilliance by the burning thatch.  
Tears spill down his cheeks, he tells himself it's caused by the roiling smoke. His heart breaks and screams otherwise in symphony with the agony of the dying.  
A woman with a small child in her arms dashes by him towards the side gate, a cry of despair ripping through her lips at the sight of it. Locked and burning, impassable.  
A crowd of desperate souls mills around the gate. And he knows they have no way of opening the gate. But he does.   
He opens his mind to the river running through him, he can feel it sparking through his veins, he can feel the air stirring in answer around him lifting his hair, each strand conducting golden sparks. The fires burning around him leap and flare, rising high and leaning towards his body, caught in the spiral of wind around him. The gate explodes in a shower of burning sparks and coals.   
The groups of servants rushes through the gate. For once he can feel they are thankful to him.


End file.
